Private Investigations

This was serious. Her arms were aching by now, her fingers numb. How much longer could she cling to this pipe before her hands began to slip, before she plunged—How far was it? She made the mistake of glancing down and was immediately so giddy that she closed her eyes. That’s why she didn’t see the long arm that reached down from over her head, didn’t know it was there until a strong hand clamped around her wrist.

Eyes flying open, she issued a little yelp of surprise. The hand tugged, urging her to release her grip on the pipe. No choice but to trust him. She did and was hauled up with such force that when her feet touched firm floor again, they failed to support her.

She staggered, slamming against a hard wall which turned out to be a broad-shouldered body. The body had a pair of arms that caught and steadied her in a comforting embrace. At least it was comforting until, dragging her head back, she looked up and discovered that the pair of lady-killer eyes colliding with hers belonged to the Prince of Darkness.

“You have got to stop falling for me like this,” he said.

Chapter Two

It was disgusting that, like half the female population in New Orleans, she should suddenly find herself susceptible to this man. Of course, there was a very good explanation. This was only a momentary reaction because she’d been so shaken by her predicament. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be experiencing all these treacherous sensations. This dizzy breathlessness as the pair of brash green eyes, that didn’t miss a thing, continued to hold her gaze. This sudden heat in her insides as she stared up at the bold face under its thatch of dark hair. And this weakness in her limbs as the powerful arms continued to pin her against his chest.

Okay, so the guy had a blatant sex appeal in a lean body that scraped six feet and moved with a sensual, confident gait. She’d give him that, whatever her earlier denials.

But Dallas McFarland? Come on, he was her rival, her sworn enemy. And nature was playing a mean trick on her, that’s all, one Christy planned to correct just as soon as she recovered her wind.

“Because,” he continued in a deliberately seductive voice, “if you go around dropping into holes just to get my attention, things are bound to happen. Really dangerous things.” And up came that grin again on his wide mouth, the sinful, mocking one.

“I suppose,” she said, finding air at last, “there’s an explanation for why you’re not on a boat with Brenda Bornowski. Why you happen to be—Hey, let me go.”

“That any way to express your appreciation to the man who just saved your shapely little fanny from getting flattened?”

“I’m forever grateful,” she said sarcastically, and then amended it with a grudging, “Okay, I am grateful. Now let me go.”

He released her and Christy moved back out of his reach. Better. Or it would be if those green eyes would stop trying to get intimate with her. “So what did you do with Brenda?”

“Turned her over to one of my operatives when the boat made its first stop. Routine stuff at that point,” he boasted. “She did meet the punk onboard, by the way. I imagine Daddy will be subjecting her to a harsh punishment when he gets my report. Probably deprive her of her credit cards for at least a month.”

He sounded so smug about it, so carelessly confident that Christy wanted to smack him. She had gone and busted her backside, that same backside he had just so familiarly referred to, to win the Bornowski case, and he’d reached out with ease and plucked it from her grasp. It was an outcome that still rankled.

McFarland had a pair of black eyebrows, thick ones that seemed to express his moods. Right now they were lifted in amusement. “Yeah, I know,” he said, reading her thoughts, “you’re wondering how I managed to catch up with little Brenda when you thought you’d left me in the dust back on Canal. It’s called being resourceful—like slipping a couple of twenties to the subject’s best friend beforehand to let you know by cell phone where she’s planning to wind up. Hey, don’t scowl at me like that. All’s fair in love and private investigation.”

“Which still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here.”

“Oh, didn’t I say?” He leaned negligently against one of the attic’s supporting posts. “See, my operative wasn’t alone. He’d brought Monica Claiborne with him to the landing. She wanted to speak with me before she went on to meet her brother-in-law.”

Oh, no, Christy thought with a sinking heart, knowing what was coming.

“Seems Monica isn’t satisfied with what the cops are doing to find her sister’s killer. And since, unlike her brother-in-law, she can afford to hire the best—that’s me and my agency—she asked me to look into it.”

It was worse than Christy imagined, because Monica must have told McFarland that Glenn meant to hire her for the same purpose.

He smiled that odious smile again. “News travels fast, huh? Hey, take it easy. Way you’re reeling, you’ll be sliding into that hole again.”

Christy couldn’t stand it. She positively could not stand it. This case was vital to her, probably her last chance to survive as a P.I. in her own right, and now here was Dallas McFarland again threatening to mess it up for her. Well, not if she could help it.

Recovering her gun and her bag from the floor, clutching them against her breasts, she fired off a livid, “I can’t stop you from working for Monica Claiborne, but you keep away from me and my client or I’ll report you to the licensing board for unethical practices! I swear I will!”

“Uh, actually, I was sort of thinking—”

“Don’t!”

Pushing past him, she fled down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. McFarland was right behind her, as persistent as a dog barking up a tree. And equally annoying.

“I don’t know what you’re so mad about. If I hadn’t come out here, just like you did, to take a look at the scene of Laura Hollister’s death, where would you be? Still hanging from that gas pipe, right?”

Christy rushed on, not answering him.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? So the least you could do—” He followed her through the gap in the boards and out into the yard. “—the least you could do is listen to me.”

Ignoring him, she headed for her car under the oaks. He was still nipping at her heels.

“Look, grits, slow down long enough to hear me—”

This time she stopped, rounding on him so swiftly he almost collided with her. “What did you just call me?”

He backed up a safe distance away from her, his hands raised in mock innocence. “Hey, it’s a compliment. Grits is one of my favorite foods. Really.”

“Is it? Well, that’s one Southern dish I can do without.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. With a little honey on top, it’s downright irresistible.” There went those eyebrows again, registering something far too suggestive.

“I’ll bet.”

Swinging away from him, she went on to her car. It was no longer alone under the oaks. McFarland’s car was parked beside it. And wouldn’t you know it would be a sleek, cream-colored convertible just reeking of success, making her own old red Escort look all the more inadequate by comparison.

Well, so what? It was dependable enough to take her out of here and away from McFarland, providing she could find the keys. Naturally, she couldn’t. She had to stand there digging through all the junk in her bag while McFarland caught up with her. Trapped. Forced to listen to him as he leaned his rangy, tempting frame against the side of her car.

“Got a proposition for you, grits. Oh, you’re gonna love it.”

He spoke in a lazy, deep-voiced drawl, the country-boy variety. She suspected it wasn’t altogether genuine and wondered how many women had been dumb enough to fall for it.

“What I was thinking,” he went on, “is that you and I could work together on this case.”

Now that took her attention away from her frantic search for the car keys. Boy, did it ever! She lifted her head and stared at him, not believing what she was hearing. Somebody here had just lost his mind, and she didn’t think it was her.

“I can see by the way that sweet little nose of yours is twitching that you’re just a tad upset by the notion. But think about it. Even if we do have separate clients, we’re after the same thing, aren’t we? The truth behind Laura Hollister’s murder. So why not join forces and share our efforts? Make sense?”

“About as much sense as a cottonmouth getting cozy with a bunny rabbit.” As she went on staring at him, Christy realized there was something intense behind this casual offer of his. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Well, sure.”

“It’s never going to happen, McFarland. And why would an exalted P.I. like you, want it to happen when you know how I feel about you? Which, in case you’ve been wondering, isn’t good. Besides—and correct me if I’m wrong—your opinion of me and my agency is—” She broke off with another sudden realization. “Oh, I get it. I’m a direct pipeline to the chief suspect. You want easy access to any privileged information my client might share with me. And that’s about as underhanded as slipping a pair of twenties to Brenda Bornowski’s best friend.”

“Why, when I’d be sharing anything Monica Claiborne knows with you?”

“I’ll collect my own information, thank you. And move aside so I can get out of here.” She had found her car keys, and now all she wanted was to put Dallas McFarland behind her. Far behind her.

“Sure you won’t reconsider?” He stepped away from the Escort. “It would be an opportunity for you to work with an experienced P.I. Just think of how much you could learn.”